Hers
by rewritetheending
Summary: "For such softly spoken words, they've continued to echo in Kate's mind for several minutes, the reassurance she's sure Kyra intended only leaving the detective with a new mystery to solve. How could Castle be all hers when she didn't know she wanted him in the first place?" An AU ending for A Rose for Everafter (2x12) featuring a wedding reception for two.


_He's all yours._

For such softly spoken words, they've continued to echo in Kate's mind for several minutes, the reassurance she's sure Kyra intended only leaving the detective with a new mystery to solve.

How could Castle be all hers when she didn't know she wanted him in the first place?

Sure, the betrayal she'd felt when he had conducted a wayward investigation into her mother's case may have cut a little more deeply, left her bleeding a little more freely than if he hadn't mattered to her at all. She's willing to concede to a flicker of attraction, maybe even a moment when things could have changed for them at his book launch. And though he still manages to be too much, too often, she has begun to consider whether he's the perfect balance for all the times she's not enough.

As a wise man once noted, Ying-Ying is a name for a panda, and she has no desire to play zookeeper.

The tap of fingertips against her desk is enough to make her startle, Kate looking up with wide eyes. Castle meets her surprise with the slightest curve of a smile, the chance to tease her left for another day, and she can't help but wonder whether Kyra's goodbye kiss, as light as it looked from afar, has managed to weigh him down. First loves tend to have that kind of power.

"Headed home, Castle?"

"Yeah, I'm going to get some writing done," he affirms. "But we're still on for the wedding tomorrow morning?"

Attending the ceremony by his side while his gaze is sure to linger elsewhere could prove to be a mistake, but she's already said yes and there's no good reason to refuse now. She has the next two days off and Castle knows it; being the plus one at his ex-girlfriend's wedding is bound to be awkward, but it's also unavoidable.

With a quick nod, she agrees. "I'll meet you there."

As he hurries for the elevator, she doesn't want to imagine what – or who – has inspired a new story idea and a burst of energy, her questions better left unanswered. And she's still stuck on why it matters at all. Kate hadn't asked to be Nikki Heat, hadn't asked for a precinct shadow.

She definitely hadn't asked for the twinge of jealousy fluttering unchecked in her chest, her palm pressed against it as though it can be smothered that easily.

Her brief conversation with Kyra in the elevator had been more illuminating than she'd readily admit; the idea that Kate had spent the past year limiting Castle's identity to…well, _Castle_ …didn't sit well with her. So as her pen begins to scrape out an unrecognizable picture, the cobwebbed corners of her memory clear enough to offer reminders of the times she's been allowed glimpses of _Rick._

The moment she'd told him about her mother, his reaction nothing like she had feared or expected, a joke cracked only for her benefit. The honest apology he'd offered after investigating behind her back, its simple and straightforward delivery a surprise when spoken by someone who now seems to be anything but. His unabashed concern for a murdered pop star's sister, and his solemnity at a candlelight vigil. A casual breakfast for his mother and daughter after a night dressed to the nines, a front that couldn't have been put on with the expectation of her arrival. The light in his eyes when he sees Alexis or talks to Alexis or shares memories of Alexis.

And that damn book dedication.

After all, that was the point of their tête-à-tête, right? Kyra hadn't been shy when she'd noted "he only dedicates books to people he really cares for," and Kate feels her stomach flip – a sensation that should have gone the way of the choker necklaces and overalls of her high school days – because the realization is overwhelming. Castle may be something of a playboy, eager to undress his muse while retaining his always present smirk, but Rick _cares_ for her. It's suddenly difficult to separate the two personas and their respective goals because it's all one mess in her head and her heart and then there's the worst part of it:

She's pretty sure she cares for him, too.

Her pen slips from her hand and she laughs at the humor and helplessness of it all, the ridiculous notion of being his date to a wedding when her feelings are becoming clear and his may be a little muddied. Still, as Kate settles back in her chair, five quick stages of something leave her with enough acceptance to acknowledge the smile on her face.

* * *

The next morning, the tilt of her head and abused lower lip give way to a furrowed brow and a sigh when her bangs find themselves on the wrong side of unruly. Jokes about the effort spent styling her hair would be too easy, but she'd still deny the facts if asked, nobody needing to know how carefully she curls, tucks, and sprays it before practicing a look of nonchalance for several seconds. Then the devil resting on her shoulder suggests she wear one of the dresses buried too far back in her closet, but an angel counters with a stern reminder of the January weather and a nod toward practical pants; the devil still gets a bit of a win when Kate slips into a too-thin blouse and a necklace bound to draw attention to her chest. It's all unnecessary and the type of girlish excess that should have her rolling her eyes, but she's been knocked askew by a twist of nausea and distracts herself by choosing the perfect pair of heels from her collection.

After grabbing her purse and managing another deep breath or two, she finally makes her way out the door, prepared to witness happy vows and perhaps find the inspiration for a declaration of her own. The plan she'd crafted last night had seemed straightforward at the time, but it's become clouded by doubt in the hours since.

He's waiting for her outside the wedding site, propped against the building by a broad shoulder, his cheeks reddened by the winter chill and almost drawing her attention away from the blue of his eyes.

"Just in time, Detective. Ready to bask in the romantic promises of a happily ever after?"

She has no idea whether she's ready for anything ever after, but she responds to his grin with one of her own. "I suppose it's one of the classier ways to celebrate a closed case."

They're both surprised to find they are among only a dozen or so guests, and Kate can't decide whether the small group makes her feel more or less vulnerable. Her barely-accepted feelings toward Castle – and Castle's feelings toward Kyra – may end up echoing off the grand walls during the hushed recital of vows, and no stranger should be privy to that. She's put at ease when the ceremony moves swiftly, a few words capped with a kiss and congratulatory applause.

And the toss of the bouquet, of course.

There's a ripple of shock when the flowers land in her hands, in part because it's the first time she hasn't been able to sidestep the alleged destiny tucked into the petals, but more so because it doesn't terrify her to be holding the promise of –

"Oooooh, Beckett, do you know what this means? It's been said that the woman who catches the bouquet will be the next one to get married," Castle gushes.

"Relax," she replies, interrupting his humming of "The Wedding March" and distracting herself from hopes she can't possibly entertain within 24 hours of conceding to a romantic feeling or two. "It's some flowers tied together. No need to get carried away by a matrimonial myth."

He shakes his head in faux rebuke. "We'll revisit this argument when you're being carried over the threshold."

She's able to hide the warmth in her cheeks when they both turn to greet to Kyra and Greg, offering well wishes as the newlyweds thank them for attending the small celebration. There's little left to do once the couple moves along to another guest, no reception planned after the chaos of the wedding postponement, and Kate wonders whether her restless night and musings of starry-eyed confessions have been wasted on a moment that isn't meant to be.

The smooth silver of her necklace rolls between her finger and thumb as she looks up at Castle and eases toward a goodbye. "So, are you going back to the loft? Maybe get some more writing done?"

"Nice try, but you don't get to bail on your commitment yet," he grins. "No wedding is complete without a champagne toast."

While she hadn't been looking to bail, she is confused. "Um, first of all, it's only 10:30 in the morning. That may be a little early for a drink. Second, this was just a quick 'I do' with none of the typical wedding hoopla—"

"Except the bouquet toss."

"Yes, except that." She rolls her eyes and continues. "But there's no reception, which means no hors d'oeuvres and no dancing and no bar from which we would get a glass of champagne."

"Hey, champagne is a classy libation, suitable for consumption at any time of day, and you can always make it a mimosa if you need to feel better about drinking before noon. Also, the absence of a reception here only means we'll be responsible for staging one of our own."

"It sounds like you have a plan," she says, her eyes narrowed as she braces herself for his response.

"The Plaza."

"The Plaza?"

"Yeah, it's this fancy hotel, adored by sightseers, happens to have a dining venue called The Champagne Bar."

He gets a not-so-gentle nudge of her shoulder against his for his sarcasm. "I know what The Plaza is, Castle. But you seriously want to go there now?"

"I seriously do."

In a matter of seconds, she has herself convinced she's doing him a favor, this man whose first love has just married someone else, her partner who is only looking for a chance to relax with a midday drink and light conversation. Her decision to accompany him is about how best to be a friend to him, and certainly not because she's realized she'd like to be more.

So, she nods. Doesn't flinch when he helps her into her coat and brushes the back of her neck with his fingertips. Stays near as he leads them toward the busy street and waves down a cab. Sits too close in the back seat and pretends it's an accident. Allows him to thread their arms together when they've arrived as though this is something they do. Shivers when he unlinks them only to press his hand to the small of her back as they enter the lobby.

Contemplates whether he has her figured out already.

Somehow they're seated before she can give it more thought, settled into matching chairs with only a small table and two champagne flutes between them. It's immediately intimate, more than any tourist attraction has a right to be in the middle of a weekday, and she hides her hope behind crystal as she takes a sip.

Their small talk disarms her, the banter as effortless as she's come to expect, and Kate lets herself be kept calm by the cadence of his voice. It works even when Castle reaches for her hand, steadies the fingers that had been tracing the whorls of the marble by lacing them with his. They make eye contact and respect its fragility; they aren't alone and she senses a secret is about to be shared.

"Dance with me."

Her eyes widen and she brings the champagne to her lips, detective mode in overdrive while she decides whether he's joking. "Where and why and _how_ are we going to dance? Nobody is dancing here. It's not really a _dance_ kind of situation. It's a champagne bar, which makes it a drinking situation, and I think we're doing rather well at that, though not quite well enough to make me think dancing is a great idea."

She's babbling and his smirk suggests he is enjoying the combined effect of his invitation and their mid-morning indulgence. He releases her hand to properly enumerate his response, the lost connection almost causing her to miss what he says.

"First, there's plenty of space on the floor over there," he explains, gesturing with a nod. "We won't be in anyone's way, so don't try to argue that. Second, I'd like to dance with you because you were my date to a wedding and, as was true about the champagne toast, we shouldn't miss out on the fun of a reception just because a formal one wasn't scheduled. And third, well, it's probably easier to show you how, but if we stand close to each other, then I put my arm behind your back and you reach up around my neck—"

"Castle, if I reach for your neck right now, it might not end the way you're hoping."

He forces a frown, even as there are ripples of laughter in the blue of his eyes. "Is that a no?"

The chair is silent as she nudges it backward, giving herself enough room to stand; the champagne flute is nearly as quiet when she returns it to the edge of the table and slides it toward safety. Her hand has been without his for several seconds too long already, so she remedies that and tugs him toward the empty floor space he'd noticed. There's music playing somewhere nearby, the soothing strings providing a soundtrack she's unlikely to forget, and she lets a smile sneak free as she shrugs.

"For some reason, I'm finding it hard to say no to you today."

And then they're wrapped around each other, a position that feels infinitely more natural than it did when they'd gone undercover the year before. They're breathing as one, each rise and fall of his chest obvious when it's pressed against hers, the vibration of his happy humming absorbed by the palm that rests atop his shoulder. She's heard scent is strongly tied to memories, and she can only hope that the comfort of his cologne triggers this very moment and all the promise of what could happen in the next.

Of course, there's a hesitance born of too many questions, an uncertainty not fully pacified by their goodbye to the bride. Were last night's daydreams manufactured by possessiveness or fear? Has Kate agreed to new levels of frivolity by a need to claim Castle, hold him close until there's someone other than Kyra who recognizes that he's hers? Is Castle dancing to a melancholy tune from long ago, memories leading him into another woman's embrace while he remembers the one who got away?

"Is there something you need to tell me, Beckett?"

"What? No. Why?" she stammers, each syllable accompanied by a too-strong thump of her heart.

"Well, if that crease between your eyebrows deepens any further, there's a good chance it'll become permanent." The corner of his mouth quirks upward, but his gaze carries concern. "Wedding receptions are supposed to be fun, but you look like you're about to confess to a crime."

She rolls her eyes, a reflex – defense mechanism, really – stirred by his ability to read her too well. And maybe it's not a crime per se, but whatever she feels toward him does make her wonder whether she's better off remaining silent. Words are his thing, and the determination she'd developed in the dark of the precinct has been diminished by the daylight.

Somehow, Kate manages to move even closer, their bodies already aligned as they sway, and she hides her face against his neck, brushes the cold tip of her nose along his soft skin while her mouth fights the words that need to be spoken. He tenses for only a second, relaxing into this thing she's offering, even if neither of them know exactly what it is. It's not long before the hand on his shoulder begins to roam, sliding across his back and holding him there; he responds in kind when his hand falls to her waist and fists in her shirt. There's an ache deep inside when she realizes how much she needs him.

"Last night, at the precinct," she starts, becoming lost when he dips his head to hear her better, causing her to meet him halfway where their foreheads touch. It would be easy to kiss now, talk later, but she thinks it may be worth it if they can do this right.

"Last night?"

She hums in affirmation. "Yeah, I think I knew what I was going to say. To you. I had it figured out, but you were already gone and it was too late."

"Too late?" Castle looks confused and delighted and a little bit worried. "What happened after I left last night?"

"Kyra." Kate feels his breath catch and despises the jealous twinge that follows. "I mean, Kyra was there before you left, but then later I was thinking about what she told me and I thought I knew what to say to you, but you were gone then and you're here now and I don't know anymore."

Apparently unwilling to release the fabric of the shirt he's still clutching, he drops her hand instead, reaches up to tuck a few loose curls behind her ear, and then combs his fingers through her hair until he can cup the back of her head. She has the passing thought that he's going to be the one to forgo the conversation in favor of a kiss, but he only whispers against her lips.

"What did Kyra tell you?"

"That you're all mine," she sighs, her eyes falling shut.

His breath catches again, but it feels wholly different this time. Still, she's not ready to make eye contact and simply tilts her head until she can graze her mouth along the line of his jaw. Castle forgets about her shirt, fingertips now bruising where they splay over her hip, and bides his time until she's leaned forward enough for him to murmur into her ear.

"And do you want me to be all yours?" he asks.

"I do."

* * *

The hotel room door is shut with the force of her body, Castle's weight added when he pins her there. The time it took them to settle their tab at The Champagne Bar and reserve a room for the night was suspiciously short – Kate doesn't want to consider how much money was spent to expedite the process – and it's only the delicious pressure of a solid, strong, _eager_ male body that has kept her from floating away on a cloud of champagne and lust.

Her knees falter as he sips from the tender spot on her neck, just as thirsty as she'd always imagined he'd be, but when she shoves at his jacket and claws at the first button she can find, he takes a careful step back.

And it all slows then, because of course this whirlwind of a man can come to a sudden stop, maintaining control even as she stands in front of him, breathless and wanting.

Castle removes the jacket she'd only managed to push halfway down his arms, tossing it toward a chair before he does the same with his belt. His shirt is already disheveled, so he untucks it and kicks his shoes aside, leaving himself perfectly undone and making her even more so. It can't even be called a striptease – he's still fully covered – but she squirms against the door in search of relief that only he can provide.

When he steps forward, she's able to thread her fingers through his hair and hold him in place long enough for a deep kiss, their moans mutual, the taste of him addicting. She wants more, wants everything, but he pulls away to brush his nose against hers and she knows she's in trouble.

He's still moving so damn slowly.

The thin material of her blouse is in his hands once more, teasing every sensitive nerve as it's tugged upward, and when it clears her head, she is prepared for a kiss that doesn't come. Instead, he unclasps her bra and slides it free, his eyes never leaving hers. Castle has her pants unfastened in the next second, but doesn't let them drop to the floor; he drags them over each subtle curve and caresses her bare skin, reading every one of her fantasies in the goosebumps left behind. By the time he's on his knees in front of her, he's able to slip her heels off, finally gazing up at her body and single scrap of lace he's left behind.

"May I?" he asks, looping a single finger around the fabric.

"You're really going to start asking permission _now_?"

She wants to sound annoyed, because that's comfortable for them. Or even playful, because they can do that, too. But from the wink he offers, even if it's balanced by a more timid smile, she's certain she's failed on both counts.

It no longer matters when he eases her thong down the length of her legs, helps her step free of it, and settles his hand around one of her calves, lifting it to rest over his shoulder. That move alone elicits a gasp, and she has no choice but to give herself over to the sensation when he tastes her for the first time, her moan one of gratitude and unabashed pleasure. She's unsurprised by his enthusiasm, and only slightly curious about how he manages to read her so quickly, adjusting to each subtle shift of her body.

How she remains standing is anyone's guess.

There's no way to tell how much time has passed, but she becomes desperate for a way to hold on, something to grasp as her eyes slam shut and her palms slap helplessly at the hotel room door. Just when she reaches down to tangle her fingers in his hair, he slides two fingers deep and _oh_ it's not exactly what she'd had in mind when she was looking for relief, but it's exactly what she needs. He becomes gently relentless and she gives in.

Castle lowers her leg to the ground and gives her room to stumble toward the bed. She's barely fallen back against the pillows when he's crawling over her, and she can't begin to figure out how he undressed so quickly, but there's no part of her that cares enough to try. He's visibly strong, far more solid than she'd have guessed, and she's eager to explore the play of his muscles, study his reaction to a single fingernail dragged along his skin. Kate's hands are everywhere when he leans down to kiss her again, his tongue giving her a hint of what he'd taken only moments ago, but when she slips her hand between them, he reacts by finding both of her wrists and pinning them next to her head.

"Fuck," she hisses, and if he laughs at her, she can't tell when he buries his face in her neck and does his best to make her wriggle beneath him.

Eventually, he nudges her legs apart with his knee and releases a wrist long enough to guide himself as he drives his hips forward; the way he fills her distracts her long enough that she doesn't realize her arm is free until he's already holding it still again. When he finds a rhythm, their mutual moans setting the tempo, he laces their fingers together and whispers promises she so wants to be true.

And she wants this to last – both the immediate act and the long-term possibilities – but her nerves are too heightened, her body overly responsive, so when he shifts just enough to change the way he's rocking into her, she can do nothing but surrender.

His kisses are sloppy as he coaxes wave after wave from her, and when she finds a few coherent words, she turns the encouragement back to him, more than content to feel his control give way above her. He's had the upper hand since they left their makeshift dance floor – and used that hand benevolently – but they're back on equal footing when he rolls to her side and tries to catch his breath.

"Jesus, Beckett. I invite you out for a friendly glass of champagne and you drag me to a hotel room to have your way with me? I had no idea weddings had that effect on you."

She wants to swat at him for that, but she's too satiated to move, her arms still positioned on either side of her pillow. "Gee, I'm sorry. When you said you wanted to dance, I assumed this was what you meant."

He rises onto an elbow and leans over to kiss her again, their sarcasm balanced with a newfound sweetness. "Will you say it again, what you said downstairs?"

"What I said when?" she replies, her mind still hazy.

"When I asked if you want me to be all yours."

Kate understands then, and any trepidation she might have expected is kept at bay by an overwhelming sense of calm. The phrase might carry more weight on another day, but it's important enough to repeat now, especially if he's eager to hear it.

"I do."

* * *

A/N: Written in honor of a fic left stranded long ago, and as a belated happy birthday wish to one of my very favorite people. Cheers, A! I hope you like this little story.


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